


It Only Takes Dying

by GoddessofBirth



Series: Sound the Bells [1]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Part of Bass will always be a little messed up, Smut, Smut and Feels, spoilers for 2 x 06 Dead Man Walking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:42:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a lot of fists against flesh, a lot of bitter, angry words. Because fifteen years of anger and hurt and betrayal can't be washed away with simple <em>I'm sorry's</em> and <em> I shouldn't have</em>'s. Bass has a split lip and a black eye, and his ribs look like a meat cleaver has gotten a hold of him, but right now he has Miles pinned against the door of the room, attacking with short, quick jabs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Only Takes Dying

 

There's a lot of fists against flesh, a lot of bitter, angry words. Because fifteen years of anger and hurt and betrayal can't be washed away with simple _I'm sorry_ 's and _I shouldn't have_ 's. Bass has a split lip and a black eye, and his ribs look like a meat cleaver has gotten a hold of him, but right now he has Miles pinned against the door of the room, attacking with short, quick jabs.

 

Miles isn't even fighting back, is just letting Bass pummel him over and over again while he occasionally blocks or deflects the more savage blows. Bass catches him on the cheekbone, giving him a bruise to match the one blooming on the other side of his face, and then staggers back, sucking in gulps of air for his burning lungs.

 

Miles beckons him back with a curl of his fingers. “Come on, Bass. Get it out.”

 

He shakes his head and scrubs a hand through his hair. His knuckles are broken raw from how long this has gone on and beads of sweat burn as they drip into his eyes. “My fucking arms are about to fall off.”

 

“Alright then.” Miles tangles a hand in his shirt and tugs him forward, letting Bass fall into him and bury his face in his neck. For a long time Bass just breathes with Miles' arms around him, short, panting gusts that dampen the curve of Miles' neck beyond the perspiration that's already there.

 

“We done with this now?” Miles finally asks. Bass nods and Miles gives a drawn out groan, made sharp with relief. “Thank God. Fuck, but your left hook is nasty.”

 

A laugh shakes through Bass. “You should know. You taught it to me.”

 

“That I did.” Miles pushes sweat damp curls from Bass' forehead while his other hand runs comforting circles up and down his back. Like he's a goddamn _kid_. Bass doesn't fight it though, just pushes closer into Miles' neck and lets his own arms come up around his waist. And goddammit he's crying again, little herky jerky sobs that flash out without any fucking permission at all.

 

“It's gonna be okay, brother,” Miles croons in his ear. “It's all gonna be okay.” It's _not_ all gonna be okay, because there are things they've done - to themselves, to each other - that nothing can fully fix, but Bass understands what Miles really means. _They're_ gonna be okay, even if nothing else is.

 

Miles keeps rubbing his back, making stupidly nonsensical noises. His fingers catch in the hem of Bass' shirt and ruck it up, so that his palm presses warm and bare against Bass' skin. Miles doesn't notice, but Bass idly wonders if this is how he touches his women. How he touches Rachel. They're fucking again, Bass _knows_ they are. Have to be. He should have killed her when he had the chance.

 

He knows his hatred of her is irrational. Just like his hatred of Nora. That it's just as irrational as his need to possess some piece of Emma, even when he couldn't love her, not properly, not like Miles could. There were things fucked up in his head long before the blackout, and he's not delusional enough to think otherwise. Shelly was the only person he had ever loved properly. Shelly and Miles, but his feelings for Miles have been there so long, - since before he can even remember - that he rarely even thinks of them as such. Miles is just vital, like an arm or a leg.

 

Eventually Bass cries himself out. Miles pushes away from the door and gently spins Bass around, nudging him toward the bed. He's more than willing to go, collapsing spread eagle on his stomach and burying his face in the pillow. He's not gonna move for fifty fucking years.

 

Except Miles is a selfish, rude bastard, and knees him in the side. “Oh hell no. Move the fuck over, you asshole. You don't get to beat the shit out of me and then hog the bed.”

 

“You beat the shit out of me, too,” Bass grumbles into the pillow, but scoots over anyway. Miles flops beside him, their legs tangling together as they vie for space on the twin bed.

 

They end up on their sides, lying face to face, like when they were kids and telling secrets in the dark. As they got older, the secrets they kept became more dangerous, and they started keeping them from each other, but still, it feels the same.

 

“We've got a mole.” Bass finally says what they're both thinking. It's the only way he could have been captured.

 

“Yeah.” Miles rubs his face with one hand. “You and me...Charlie....we're the only ones we can trust right now.”

 

Bass is surprised he doesn't include Rachel, but he's not about to comment. Instead he says, “Charlotte's a good kid.” Miles' eyes narrow and the corners of his lips turn down and Bass snorts. “Jesus Christ, Miles, relax. I said _kid_. She's barely more than a child.” And whatever sins Bass may have committed, he's never been a kid fucker.

 

Miles makes a grumpy sound, then grips Bass' jaw lightly. “You look like shit.”

 

“Yeah, well, you don't look so hot, either. What was the point of making me stay in bed for two days again?”

 

“Wasn't gonna let you die just so you could punch me a few times.” He presses his thumb against Bass' swollen lip. “How's this doing?”

 

Bass hisses but shrugs negligently. “It's alright. Better than your eye.” Miles has a shiner that's growing more purple by the minute. The light filtering through the window has taken on the buttery softness of late afternoon, and Bass yawns. Miles yawns right back and then pulls Bass into his arms.

 

“Come here, you ass. It'll be more comfortable like this.” Which is a lie, but Miles has always been good at making up excuses so Bass would never have to actually ask to be held. Maybe that's why it had hurt so much at the vault, because he'd had to beg Miles for a single touch. Either way, Bass just goes with it, curls in close to Miles and closes his eyes.

 

* * * * * * *

 

When he opens his eyes again, dusk is just melting into night, and he's hard and pressed flush against Miles' hip. It's really not as embarrassing as it could be. They've slept like this a lot, in foxholes before the blackout, and in tents and abandoned houses after, and nine times out of ten, one of them wakes up humping the other's leg. It's just one of the inconvenient parts of having a dick.

 

Every part of his body hurts again, because Miles hadn't pulled back anymore than he had, but at least it's honest pain and not whatever shit he'd woken up with after Rachel's death drugs. He starts to untangle himself from Miles, until Miles makes an unhappy grunt and tightens his arms, still caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.

 

“Hey, Miles,” he pats his side because Miles' has an elbow wrapped around his shoulders that's doing a good job of locking him in place. “Unless you want me to start rubbing one out on your leg, you better let go.” Of course now he _is_ thinking about rubbing one out on Miles, which is a mental place he tries really, really hard not to go, not before Miles left and definitely not in the months and years after.

 

Miles grumbles unintelligibly again, something that sounds suspiciously like _go back to sleep_ , and fidgets until they're tangled even closer and that's when he realizes Miles is hard too. Which is even _worse_ , because to be honest, an alternate ending to this whole scenario had been a guilty part of his spank bank for years. Bass loves Miles like a brother, yeah, but he loves him in a lot of other ways, too.

 

He takes desperate measures and digs two fingers into Miles' bruised ribs, who jolts and yelps and startles away.

 

“Son of a _bitch_. The _hell_ , Bass?”

 

“You're poking a hole in my leg,” he says pointedly.

 

“Yeah, well so are you!” Miles looks grumpy and half-awake and his already out of control hair is an utter mess. It's too easy to imagine him wrecked for a totally different reason than sleep and the bruises he's sporting, so Bass grins, rakish and lewd.

 

“That's what happens when Miss November is being particularly friendly in your dreams. Man, the _tits_ on her -”

 

Miles opens his mouth to retort, but suddenly, inexplicably, he stops. All at once his eyes widen minutely, then narrow, and then he's examining Bass' face like he's never _seen_ him before. A minute passes and then Miles says -

 

“No.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I mean no. That's not what you're thinking about. Maybe that's what you were dreaming about, hell, I don't know, but that's not what you're thinking about now.” Miles voice is quietly confident, and ice drips down Bass' spine.

 

“I think that last hit jarred your brain loose.”

 

Miles makes a noncommittal humming noise. Bass wants to squirm under his gaze but he forces himself to hold completely still. Until Miles does the unexpected and lays a flat hand across Bass' ribs, firm but not pressing into the bruises. He drags it down Bass' side to his hip, agonizingly slow, palm large and warm as it curls around him. Bass does his best not to react, not to move, but his hips still twitch inward. It's reflexive, barely there, but of course Miles feels it.

 

“That's what I thought,” he says smugly.

 

Bass punches him.

 

It's pretty ineffectual, being as how they're practically face to face and he doesn't exactly have swing range, but it's the only thing he can think to do. Miles curses and grabs Bass' fist, locking it against his chest.

 

“Goddammit! I thought you said we were done with the punching!”

 

“Yeah, and I thought you said you were done being a dick!”

 

Miles peers at him in the flickering half dark of the wall torch. “Is that what you think this --” He carefully lets go of Bass' fist and holds up a cautioning hand. “Just in case you need to hit me again.” Then--

 

Then, Miles kisses him.

 

Miles Matheson is kissing him. Kissing him just like he fights – no hesitation, no reticence, just tongue and teeth and lips. Wet and biting and Jesus Fucking Christ, Bass is frozen against him, shaking apart and not knowing what to do with his hands or how to respond because he wants it, fuck does he want it, but he doesn't know what's happening and if this is going to be one more thing that Miles gives him and then takes away and _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.._

 

He finally finds the presence of mind to tuck his hands between them and shove Miles back, even though it fucking _hurts_ to do it. Miles stares back at him, eyes dark and intense, and licks across his bottom lip like he's tasting Bass there.

 

“What's happening, Miles?” He _hates_ how small and confused his voice sounds, but it's only been four days and he's gone from thinking Miles hates him, to having his best friend back, to having Miles dangling something in front of him he's barely allowed himself to ever acknowledge he even _wants_. The ground keeps shifting under his feet and he can't get his bearing.

 

Miles grin is roguish. “I would have thought that was obvious.”

 

“Is this -” A spark of anger lights at the base of his spine. “Is this some kind of pity fuck? Just one more thing you think you should give me to keep me _stable_?” He spits the word out like the dirty thing it is. There's a lot of things he'll gladly take from Miles, happily hoard up and lock away, but this...this isn't one of them. “Poor little Bass, with a hard on for his brother. I don't fucking need that from you. Not from you.”

 

Miles strikes fast, lunging at Bass and rolling him underneath him. “You're not actually my brother, Bass, you do realize that, right? And I don't do pity fucks.” He strokes a thumb down the curve of Bass' neck, and Bass can't help it, can't keep from arching into it. “I'm just catching up, Bass. Don't be angry at me for being slow.” He drags his mouth across Bass' cheek, so soft he wants to weep from it, and then kisses the corner of his mouth. “Come on, Bass. Open up for me.”

 

And he does. Oh god he does. Turns his head and catches Miles' mouth and parts his lips so he can slip inside. Miles groans and shudders before burying his hands in Bass' hair and tilting his head back and _eating_ at Bass like he's starving. Like Bass' mouth is the best thing he's ever tasted. Bass tries to put his hands everywhere at once – Miles' face, his back, slipping underneath his shirt and scratching down his sides. Miles bites at his mouth, the pleasure overtaking the sting from the broken lip, and rolls his hips. He can feel Miles better like this, hard and straining, and Bass digs his nails into his shoulders, writhes helplessly underneath him. He struggles with Miles' shirt, only getting it off when Miles deigns to let go of his mouth just long enough to strip it over his head and then yank Bass' off after it.

 

The skin on skin – like this, with intent – is almost enough to undo him, and he fights to swim to shore, to remember something other than letting his legs fall apart and his back arch and his body shamelessly beg like a bitch in heat.

 

“Miles, you can't...” He fights to make the words come, to not jumble or lose them in the feel of Miles' mouth against the underside of his jaw. He'd never thought he'd get... “...you can't do this and go back and fuck Rachel. Or...or...” Or _anybody_. Bass is trying. He really is. Trying hard to be good and follow Miles' rules, but he's still _him_. And he knows if he gets Miles and then someone else touches him – Bass will _murder_ them. There's no way he wouldn't.

 

“Christ, Bass. I'm not fucking Rachel.”

 

“You're...not?”

 

“ _No_.” He grins, his teeth white in the darkness. “I'm fucking _you_.” He must see the look on Bass' face because he stops what he's doing - Bass does not approve - pins Bass' hands beside his head, and looks him dead in the eye. “Just you, Bass. Just. You.”

 

Bass breaks into a million pieces, _gonegonegone_ with Miles' words and the hands on his wrists and the steady realization that Miles _wants_ him, that Bass is finally going to get to steal away every piece of him, be curled around every part of him. He's whimpering, struggling to reach Miles' mouth, his face, anything. Turning his head to the side and dragging his teeth across Miles' wrist, because Miles still won't let him go.

 

“Miles, _please._ ”

 

Miles cups his face, whispers a soft _shhh, shhh, shhh._ It's an eerie echo of their exchange two nights ago, but while his voice may be soft, something in Miles' jaw is angry and hard. “ _Bass_.” He dips down and kisses him, rubs his body up the length of his so that their dicks catch and rub even through their clothes, and Bass throws his head back and pants.

 

“Bass,” he says again, and waits until Bass pulls together enough to focus on him. “Understand me. If you think this is some kind of quick hump, think we're gonna do this and then when we get to the next town you can start tumbling the first piece of tail you see -”

 

“No. No, no, no, Miles.” Can't Miles see that's what _Bass_ is afraid of? “Don't want that,” he swears. “I won't.” His words are slurry with need, because Miles has that look in his eyes, the kind he used to get before he cut down a dozen men, and fuck, but it's pretty. “Come on, Miles, I _won't_.” His head thrashes to the side and he plants his feet on the thin mattress and thrusts up into Miles. “Just _fuck me_ already, you stubborn ass.”

 

“Goddamn,” Miles breathes, pushing back on his hands and staring down at him. “Look at you.” Bass doesn't even want to know what he looks like, what kind of mess five minutes with Miles has turned him into. Not that he cares, he doesn't, just so long as Miles will _get the show on the road_. But Miles unexpectedly changes tactics, grabs his wrist again and presses his thumb against the bandage, hard over the place where the Monroe brand used to be. “Swear it, Bass.”

 

Bass narrows his eyes and hisses back, “ _You_ swear it.” _He_ ' _s_ not the promise breaker here.

 

But Miles doesn't hesitate, just changes the pressure of his thumb to a gentle stroke and says easily, “I swear.”

 

Bass' smile is giddy, a little punch drunk as the last bit of tension slips away. “Yeah, me too.”

 

Miles' answering grin is boyish, some sort of reminder of the days before the blackout. “Well thank fuck for that.”

 

It all goes fast after that. Miles has them naked in what Bass swears is two seconds flat, biting and licking and sucking as he goes, while Bass' hands are frantic and quick, grabbing and touching every piece of skin he can, fisting in Miles' hair and slipping in the crevices of his mouth. He can't stop _touching_ , can't stop reassuring himself that this is real, this is happening, despite Miles whispering again and again, _I'm here, I'm here_.

 

They can't really fuck, not properly, a fact Miles notes with a grumpy, “Tomorrow we're getting some goddamn oil,” but Miles can bury his face between Bass' legs with an enthusiasm Bass never would have imagined, until Bass is scrabbling and begging and crying. Can pull off with a pop and slide up Bass' body until they're face to face and he can get a hand around both their dicks.

 

Bass is too far gone for any real thought, clutching at Miles' shoulders as he jerks them off. Miles' hand is hot and the slide is smooth and Bass can feel their stomachs clench with every stroke. And he's trembling again, shaking as he buries his head in Miles' neck and feels the brush of his lips across his temple.

 

He can't hold out – not like this, not when he's feeling safe for the first time in years – and Miles pushes him straight off the edge when he murmurs, “I've got you, I've got you, it's going to be okay.”

 

His teeth leave a red ring on Miles' neck when he comes, curled tight and shivering and whispering Miles' name, and then Miles is graveling out “Fucking, Jesus, _Bass_ ,” snapping his hips hard enough to leave bruises, and painting Bass' stomach with wet heat.

 

They're a mess – in more ways than one – but Miles doesn't roll away or move to clean up, just wipes his hand on the bedclothes and pull Bass against him. Bass clings like a limpet, arms and legs wrapped tight, and Miles just lets him, pets his back and neck and presses his lips against his throat with a tenderness the rest of the world rarely sees.

 

“I've got you,” he whispers again. “I've got you.”

 

And Bass believes him.


End file.
